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>Crazy arm surgeries, extreme flexibility, Super-hearing and more all after the jump...

by Chris Connolly
If you're old enough to read this magazine, then you're probably too old for any latent superhero powers to emerge. But don't despair! In the absence of radioactive spiders or vats of chemical ooze, there's always plain ol' science. You may not be able to shoot force beams from your eyes or hurl cars across the city, but a lot of people (namely athletes) are bypassing superhumanism for the next best thing: really-really-impressive humanism.With the following five-step program (and unfettered access to money and cutting-edge doctors), you can achieve it, too. Just remember, when some villain holds the world hostage with an earthquake ray, you have to save us first!STEP 1. Get Re-Armed and Dangerous - TOMMY JOHN SURGERY
YOUR FIRST STOP ON THE TRAIN to More-Powerful-than-a-Locomotiveness is a procedure called ulnar collateral ligament (UCL) reconstruction, which will give you the ability to throw objects with incredible force.

Although it's now common to see baseball pitchers playing into their 40s, all that throwing used to take an early-retirement toll on the arm. The power generated when hurling a baseball is startling. At certain points during delivery, a pitcher's arm is moving approximately 7,000 degrees per second—the equivalent of rotating your arm all the way around 70,000 times an hour. Injuries caused by this unnatural stress used to end dozens of pitching careers. One of the most common and most dreaded of these maladies is known as "dead arm injury"—a medical term that's somewhat imprecise, except for what it meant to a player: Time to hang up the glove. In 1974, however, that all changed.

In that illustrious year, 31-year-old Los Angeles Dodger Tommy John decided that, despite a dead arm injury, he wasn't quite done pitching. So, he went to see the team's orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Frank Jobe, and asked if there were any procedures that could prolong his career. When Jobe said no, John told him to "make something up."

That "something" Dr. Jobe contrived was UCL reconstruction, which became commonly known as Tommy John Surgery. The now-routine operation involves taking a tendon from the wrist or hamstring and grafting it to the elbow. Holes are then drilled into the arm's humerus and ulna bones, and the new tendon is woven between them in a figure-eight pattern. After that, a long rehabilitation period is required so that the body has time to brainwash the tendon into thinking it's a ligament, allowing the athlete to rebuild strength. Although it took two surgeries and a full year of rehab, the procedure worked so well for Tommy John that he pitched for another 14 years.

These days, UCL reconstruction has been perfected to the point that many patients exit the operating room better than they went in. In fact, getting the procedure can often promise pitchers an 8 or 9 mph boost to their fastballs, meaning the Tommy John procedure isn't always about healing the injured as much as improving the intact. Of the Major League pitchers active in 2006, about 1 in 9 had undergone UCL surgery. Cubs starter Kerry Wood, who blew out his elbow in spring training following his sensational 1998 rookie season, used to max out around 95 mph. After the operation, however, he discovered he could reach the triple-digit mark.

The surgery alone isn't responsible for the recent rise in pitching speeds, though. The deliberate approach patients take to rebuilding arm strength is also a major factor. Still, if the ability to hurl a variety of objects at your megalomaniac foes sounds good to you, a few extra hours in the gym shouldn't stand in the way.

STEP 2. Achieve Gumby-like Flexibility - HYALURONAN INJECTIONS TO INCREASE YOUR FLEXIBILITY AND DURABILITY, the next medical treatment we recommend is viscosupplementation. Now, we're not saying you'll be able to flatten out and squeeze through prison bars, but it should place your bendiness well beyond the curve.

Simply put, viscosupplementation means injecting a super-lubricating substance called hyaluronan into selected joints. And because hyaluronan is a major component of synovial fluid, the process is becoming increasingly popular among arthritis sufferers and aging athletes alike. Baseball superstar Randy Johnson gets injections every six months and has all but admitted that without them he couldn't continue pitching.
Somewhat disgustingly, hyaluronan was first discovered in 1934 by Columbia University ophthalmology professor Karl Meyer as a substance in cow eyeballs. Meyer surmised that hyaluronan helped the eyeballs keep their shape and, due to its immense viscosity, suspected it could have some therapeutic benefits. Of course, draining cow eyeballs on a large scale wasn't considered an appealing prospect, and for the next several years, the testing of hyaluronan's salubrious properties was modest. Then Hungarian scientist Dr. Endre Balazs figured out how to extract the compound from—of all things—rooster combs.

We're not sure why juicing huge numbers of rooster combs was significantly less distasteful than juicing huge numbers of cow eyeballs, but the difference meant the world to researchers. Soon, doctors were using hyaluronan for everything from aiding veterinary eye surgeries to lubing up arthritic racehorses.

The benefits didn't extend to humans until after 1972, when Dr. Balazs licensed his developments to the Swedish company Pharmacia (now owned by Pfizer). With the drug giant pushing research, hyaluronan finally came into its own. Today, it's not only being used to extend the expiration dates of athletes, but also to prevent post-surgery scarring and even reduce the appearance of facial wrinkles, Ã la Botox.

If viscosupplementation wasn't already pushing the boundaries of superhero ethics, consider this supervillainish aside: In 2003, The New York Times reported that Pfizer had selectively bred a line of Swedish white leghorn roosters so weighed down by their enormous hyaluronan-producing combs that they could neither stand up nor support their heads.

STEP 3. Hear All Evil - "HEARWEAR"
ALTHOUGH IT'S NOT THE FLASHIEST OF SUPERPOWERS, superhearing is extremely useful when fighting crime. Fortunately, an array of devices were designed for the 2005-2006 "Future of Hearing" exhibition at the Victoria & Albert Museum in London, all of which just might do the trick.

First consider the Goldfish, a nifty gadget designed by a company called Human Beans. Mimicking fish (which are rumored to have a memory of about 10 seconds), the earbud records the last 10 seconds of any conversation and then replays them when you wave your hand past your ear. Very helpful if you missed someone's name—or his confession.

Another device you'll want to keep on your utility belt is the ostentatiously named The Beauty Of Inner Space. This in-ear module gives wearers complete control of their sound environment by allowing them to amplify certain noises and mute others. But the ultimate superhuman hearing aid has got to be Industrial Facility's Surround Sound Glasses.

Incorporating an advanced technology called "superdirectivity beamforming," the glasses use four onboard microphones to "focus" the wearer's hearing in whatever direction he or she is facing. As one designer said, "The result is a type of three-dimensional superhuman hearing similar to that found in certain animals, such as coyotes." Roger that.

STEP 4. Catch a Super-Strength Virus - GENE THERAPY
ONE OF THE MORE POPULAR (and creepier) ways people are looking to achieve superhuman strength these days is through the use of gene therapy. In fact, the field got a big boost in 1998, when H. Lee Sweeney of the University of Pennsylvania released a study showing that a mouse's muscles could be powerfully tweaked through genetics.

Aside from creating "mighty mice," Sweeney intended the therapy to help people suffering from genetic disorders. Of course, long before any of those truly needy folks could get near the doctor, a throng of athletes was already hammering down his door demanding treatment. Strongmen, runners, ballers—they all wished to be a little bit taller, a little bit stronger. One high school football coach even tried to have his entire team treated.Sounds like a simple fix for the Bad News Bears of the world, right? Hardly. There's a lot more to it than just inserting new genes into a poorly performing body to correct the flaws nature missed. The reality is, bodies tend to believe they're performing perfectly, and they're not about to let some modified genes jump up and start running the show. In order to smuggle problem-solving genes past the body's defenses, scientists seized on one of nature's sneakiest infiltrators—the virus. By short-circuiting the virus' disease-causing programming while maintaining its ability to bypass bodily roadblocks, gene therapy pioneers managed to create a cellular Trojan Horse. Once they had that part figured out, it was simply a matter of grafting a new and improved gene into the viral shell and letting 'er rip.

It's hoped the processes will lead to cures for diseases, such as diabetes, cystic fibrosis, and hemophilia. Of course, it's also easy to see how, when applied to a healthy person, a little gene tweak might lead to fortified bones, muscles, and even (dare we say it?) a mutant-like healing ability. In fact, the strength and speed boosts that gene therapy could give healthy humans are already so apparent that the World Anti-Doping Agency has preemptively banned the procedure.

STEP 5. Don't Lift a Finger - BRAIN IMPLANTS
THE FINAL UPGRADE TO UNDERGO is all in your head—or mind, that is. After all, as great as it is to be able to rip buildings out of the pavement, there is no superheroic power cooler than being able to do the same thing telekinetically with your brain.
Impossible? Maybe not. An American company called Cyberkinetics Neurotechnology Systems has successfully tested an aspirin-size, implantable brain computer called The BrainGate Neural Interface System. While it may not have the cuddliest name, the BGNIS is already hard at work improving the lives of paralyzed and otherwise immobile individuals. The implant is placed on the surface of the motor cortex—the part of the brain that controls movement—and uses dozens of hair-thin electrodes to detect neural signals. When it gets a spark, it bypasses the nerves and muscles and relays the information to a computer that affects change on the outside world.

This marvelous technology increases the independence of immobile individuals in a number of ways. They can "think" lights on and off, read emails, adjust their beds, and many other things. We suggest you use your BGNIS implant to control a brace of shoulder-mounted mini-cannons that fire grappling hooks, tasers, and nets. Of course, the exact application is up to you. Good luck, mighty hero!

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For seven decades, Prince Philip has been one of the more colorful figures in Britain's Royal Family, prone to jarring remarks and quips about women, the deaf, and overweight children.

"You're too fat to be an astronaut," he once told a boy sharing his dream of space travel.

British media who delighted in quoting him are still lamenting the 96-year-old's recent retirement from public duties. But the people of the Pacific Island nation of Vanuatu are likely to be optimistic he'll now have the time to join them: They worship him as a god and have based a religion on him.

Followers of the Prince Philip Movement, which started in the 1960s, believe that the prince was born to fulfill an ancient prophecy: that the son of an ancient mountain spirit would one day take the form of a pale-skinned man, travel abroad, marry a powerful lady, and eventually return to the island. When villagers saw the prince’s portrait, they felt the spirit in it, and when he visited Vanuatu in 1974, they were convinced.

Chief Jack Naiva, a respected warrior in the culture, greeted the royal yacht and caught sight of Philip on board. "I saw him standing on the deck in his white uniform," Naiva once said. "I knew then that he was the true messiah."

True believers assign large world movements to the machinations of Philip. They once claimed his powers had enabled a black man to become president of the United States and that his "magic" had assisted in helping locate Osama bin Laden. The community has corresponded with Buckingham Palace and even sent Philip a nal-nal, a traditional club for killing pigs, as a token of its appreciation. In return, he sent a portrait in which he’s holding the gift.

TORSTEN BLACKWOOD/AFP/Getty Images

The picture is now part of a shrine set up in Yaohnanen in Vanuatu that includes other photos and a Union flag. In May 2017, shortly after the Prince announced his retirement, a cyclone threatened the island—and its shrine. But according to Matthew Baylis, an author who has lived with the tribe, the natives didn't see this so much as a cause for concern as they did a harbinger of the prince's arrival so he can bask in their worship.

On an unseasonably warm day in April 1954, hundreds of women in cowboy hats gathered outside Tupperware’s Florida headquarters to dig for buried treasure. There, in a nearby swampy area dubbed the “Forest of Spades,” 600 shovels stood at the ready. The excitement was palpable. At the appointed signal, the women raced for the roped-off soil, grabbed shovels, and began to hunt frantically for loot.

It was the pinnacle of the inaugural Tupperware Jubilee, a five-day, gold-rush-themed affair celebrating all things Tupperware. No expense was spared: To give the event a Western feel, frontier-style buildings with false fronts had been erected and bulls and horses were trucked in. The women, and a smattering of men, had traveled from all across the country to participate. A collection of Tupperware dealers, distributors, and sales managers, they made the pilgrimage for the motivational speeches, sales instruction, and especially for the bizarre bonding rituals.

For five hours that day, they prospected for mink stoles and freezer units, gold watches and diamond rings. One of them, Fay Maccalupo of Buffalo, New York, dug up a toy car. When she saw the real Ford it represented, she planted her face against the hood and began to weep, repeating, “I love everybody.” Four women fainted and had to be revived with smelling salts. It was understandable, considering that the total cash value of all the prizes buried in the Florida dirt was $75,000.

Presiding over the treasure hunt was the general sales manager of the Tupperware Home Parties division, a 40-year-old woman named Brownie Wise. For hours, she cheered on the ladies from a loudspeaker with an air of royalty. As she watched them hop on shovels and unearth the rewards of their labors, she couldn’t help but feel proud. Wise took satisfaction in seeing her hard work pay off—once again. The jubilee, which she had organized, had all the pizzazz and spirit expected of an official Tupperware event. The media agreed: Network news was there to cover it, and Life magazine ran a photo essay highlighting the excitement and glamour.

Clearly, there’s more to Tupperware than leftovers. The story of the ubiquitous plastic container is a story of innovation and reinvention: how a new kind of plastic, made from an industrial waste material, ended up a symbol of female empowerment. The product ushered women into the workforce, encouraging them to make their own money, better their families, and win accolades and prizes without fear of being branded that 1950s anathema, “the career woman.”

Digging in the dirt for a gold watch may not mesh with today’s concept of a successful working woman, but at the time, the near-religious fervor seen at the jubilees and other Tupperware gatherings demonstrated just how ground-breaking the company’s sales plan was—the product became a multimillion dollar success not by exploiting women, but by embracing and boosting them. All of this was because of Brownie Wise. The story of Tupperware is her story.

Brownie Wise, named for her big, brown eyes, was born in rural Georgia. Her parents divorced when she was young, and as a teen she traveled with her mother, who organized union rallies. While touring the Deep South, Brownie started giving speeches at her mother’s rallies and soon proved to be a gifted and motivating orator. She “awed people,” writes Bob Kealing in his biography Tupperware Unsealed. “[They] were surprised that someone so young could deliver a speech like a pastor.”

Wise was married briefly, but by 27, she was a divorced single mom in suburban Detroit. During World War II, she worked as a secretary at Bendix Aviation, a company that made parts for navy torpedo planes. It was a decent but unfulfilling job. On the side, Wise penned an advice column for the Detroit News, writing under the alter ego “Hibiscus.” A housewife who led an idyllic life with her child and husband in a home called “Lovehaven,” Hibiscus had everything Wise did not. But what Wise did possess was an endless fountain of determination. As she wrote in a journal at that time, “I wanted to be a successful human being.”

It all started with a bad door-to-door salesman. When a Stanley Home Products salesman knocked on her door and proceeded to deliver a terrible sales pitch for cleaning supplies, Wise scoffed that she could do better. At the time, Stanley was experimenting with a peculiar sales model: home parties. A New Hampshire mop salesman had watched his numbers fly through the roof after he invited a bunch of women over for a party that included a mop demonstration. The company encouraged other salesmen to try the strategy, but many of them delegated the party-hosting to their wives. Thinking it’d be a fun job on the side, Wise started selling Stanley products at parties too. Before long, she was making enough money to quit her job at Bendix.

Wise was blessed with the gift of gab, and her special blend of folksy real talk and motherly encouragement helped her rise through Stanley’s ranks. Soon she was in management and hoping to ascend even higher. But those illusions were quashed at a meeting with Stanley head Frank Beveridge, who told Wise she’d never become an executive. Its halls were “no place for a woman,” he said. Wise returned home furious. The rejection lit a fire in her—she vowed that someday, somehow, she would prove Beveridge wrong.

She didn’t know that the key to fulfilling this dream would be in plastic food-storage containers. Wise first glimpsed Tupperware at a sales meeting. One of her coworkers had seen the products gathering dust in a department store and decided to bring them in. At first, Wise didn’t think they were anything special. But when she accidentally knocked a Tupperware bowl off the table, she realized its full potential: Instead of breaking, it bounced.

It seemed like magic. Tupperware was unlike any home product she’d seen before. It was attractive, coming in pastel colors and flexible shapes, almost like art. More importantly, it was functional—no other competing product even came close. Convinced of its potential, Wise traded in her Stanley brooms in 1949 and started throwing parties to sell Tupperware. What she didn’t intend, exactly, was to kindle a revolution.

AP

The most amazing thing about Tupperware wasn’t that it extended the life of leftovers and a family’s budget, although it did both remarkably well. It was, above all, a career maker. When women came to one of Wise’s parties, they were more than just convinced to buy the product— Wise was such a charming host that she persuaded many buyers to also become Tupperware salespeople. The more parties Wise hosted, the more tricks she learned to convert women into Tupperware faithful. Putting people on waiting lists, for instance, made them more eager to buy, so she signed them up regardless of whether the product was available. She also discovered that throwing containers full of liquid across the room made customers reach straight for their checkbooks. Amassing more and more saleswomen, Wise encouraged her followers to do the same. By October 1949, she had 19 recruits, enough to move her supplies out of her house and into a larger warehouse. Driven by the idea of making money simply by throwing parties for friends and neighbors, the women in Wise’s workforce ballooned in number. Soon, other Tupperware parties were taking place across the country. Wise’s team in Detroit was selling more Tupperware than most department stores. This soon attracted the attention of the no-nonsense founder of the Tupperware Corporation, Earl Silas Tupper.

Tupperware, true to its name, was Tupper’s masterpiece, and he was counting on it to make his dreams come true. Having grown up in a poor Massachusetts farm family, he had vowed to make a million dollars by the time he was 30. He hadn’t. He did have a host of esoteric inventions—among them, a fish-powered boat and no-drip ice cream cone—under his belt. But with a wife and family to support, he’d concentrated on a practical career in plastics, first at DuPont and then at a company of his own, which made parts for Jeeps and gas masks during World War II. When the war ended, Tupper decided to buy cheap surpluses left over from wartime manufacturing. He figured he’d be able to do something with them.

That’s how he ended up with a glob of greasy black polyethylene, a smelly waste product left behind when metal is created from ore. Tupper took it and, after months of trial and error, wrangled the slag into submission, creating a light-weight plastic that refused to break. Tupper dubbed it “Poly-T,” and, taking inspiration from the way paint cans sealed, created a flexible container with a noiseless lid that snapped on. He called the box Tupperware. He patented the seal in 1949 and rolled out 14 products he called the “Millionaire Line.” The only problem? He couldn’t get anyone to buy it.

At least not until Wise came along. Her sales record was remarkable—in 1949, she’d rung up $150,000 in orders and was offered a promotion: distribution rights to the entire state of Florida. In the spring of 1950, she moved south with her son, Jerry, and her mother. She found a store space, and by May she’d opened her business and was scouting for new salespeople.

Still, not everything was going smoothly. Along with disputes over turf with other distributors, she was constantly contending with botched orders, shipping delays, and product shortages. In March of 1951, Wise had had enough. She called Tupper in a fury. It was the first time they’d spoken, but she was too livid for niceties; she ripped into him immediately. This was hurting not just her bottom line, but also his. Did he not understand how crucial it was that the problems be fixed immediately? Tupper assured her that he’d fix any issues and then asked a favor: He wanted to hear her sales secrets.

The next month, the two met at a conference on Long Island and Wise explained her selling technique. It was pointless, she explained, to think that people would see Tupperware on store shelves or in catalogs and want to buy it. Instead, people had to touch it, squeeze it, drop it, seal it. They had to experience Tupperware from a trusted friend or neighbor. She gave a bold prescription for saving Tupper’s business: Ditch department stores altogether and focus entirely on throwing home parties.

Tupper took the advice to heart. So much, in fact, that the day after their meeting, he created a new division just for home parties and asked Wise to be the general manager. Wise had reached her goal: She had become an executive. It was a perfect fit, too. She had a stellar track record—she was selling more Tupperware than anyone anywhere—and Tupper was bowled over by her charm. “You talk a lot and everybody listens,” he said.

“She was the yin to Tupper’s yang,” Kealing writes. “Where he was fussy and reclusive, Wise lived to mingle with and inspire the dealer workforce.” They were a match made in sales heaven. Or so it seemed.

AP

In 1952, the first full year of Wise’s watch, Tupperware sales rocketed. Wholesale orders exceeded $2 million. During the last half of the year, sales tripled. Tupperware parties did exactly what Wise promised they would, and she became the company’s shining star. That year, Tupper gave her a salary of $20,933.33, more than she had ever made. For her birthday in 1953, he presented her with a gold-dyed palomino horse. Even more remarkably, he gave her the freedom to do practically whatever she wanted. So Wise traveled the country recruiting, presiding over sales conferences, and announcing contests and doling out prizes for incentive—including, sometimes, her own clothes.

By the looks of it, most of Wise’s Tupperware recruits fit neatly into the stereotypical role of a proper housewife. But, in reality, they surreptitiously represented a new kind of female empowerment. During World War II, many women had no choice but to enter the workforce. At its end, many of them had no choice but to leave it. Suddenly, selling Tupperware at parties allowed women to straddle both worlds. They were employed, yet they didn’t appear to challenge their husbands' authority or the status quo. This pioneering entrepreneurial model allowed them to inhabit a workforce outside of the one the hustling salesman inhabited, and, in many cases, to do even better than he did. And that power relied specifically on a network of female friends and neighbors.

The parties weren’t just a way for women to keep occupied—it was a way they could contribute to their family’s bottom line. Most women who worked outside the home had low-paying jobs in fields like light manufacturing, retail, clerical work, and health and education. The money—committed dealers could bring in $100 or more per week—was a revelation. The opportunity for success was so great that the husbands of some Tupperware ladies left their own jobs to work with their wives.

Wise was something of an early Oprah, giving away fantastic prizes, operating in a grass-roots, word-of-mouth fashion and showing rather than telling other women how to succeed in the comfort of their own homes. The fact that she made many women understand the benefits of becoming salespeople, building the brand further, simply made her a fantastic executive.

Wise embraced the spirit of female entrepreneurship wholeheartedly. In her prime, she wrote a morale-boosting newsletter called Tupperware Sparks, published a primer called Tupperware Know-How, and had a 52-minute film, A Tupperware Home Party, made as a training tool. She even convinced Tupper to move the company headquarters to Florida. When Tupper bought property in Kissimmee, Wise turned it into a Mecca-like pilgrimage site for Tupperware devotees.

Part of the power of Wise’s sales technique, which at times seemed more faith than business, was that it gave the impression that the sky was the limit, and it relied on collective power. This wasn’t just the traditional salesperson’s dog-eat-dog world: Instead, the group was a “family” that helped one another climb to the top. Women who had previously only had their names in print upon birth or marriage were being recognized for their success, with their names, photographs, and accomplishments appearing in Wise’s newsletters. Along with making their own money, they received rewards—top distributors got cars—and the chance to collaborate with other women in a friendly but competitive environment. Wise increased the fervor with her annual jubilees, which had their own rituals, like candlelit graduation ceremonies and group sing-alongs featuring choruses of “I’ve got that Tupper feeling deep in my heart.”

“No woman got praised for scrubbing floors,” Elsie Mortland, who became Tupperware’s Home Kitchen Demonstrator, told Kealing in an interview in 2005. “But when they got praised for selling Tupperware, they had something to be proud of.”

Wise was the head of the household, and the Tupperware ladies all wanted to be a part of her extended family. Success was limited only by how hard a person was willing to work, a belief that Wise preached passionately. Unfortunately, she had been duped into thinking her boss shared that opinion.

Alamy

As Wise became the face of Tupperware, sales and press continued to skyrocket. In 1954, she was the first woman to appear on the cover of Business Week. But as glowing as the magazine’s profile was, it contained warning signs about the future of her partnership with Tupper. The piece credited Wise and her sales technique with Tupperware’s estimated $25 million in retail sales and seemed to downplay Tupper’s role as president of the company he had created.

Tupper had never craved the spotlight; in fact, he was known to use the back door of his office to avoid attracting attention. But he was keen to ensure that his product, not an employee, received the lion’s share of any attention. And somewhere along the way, Wise had started to upstage the plastic containers she helped make famous. After the Business Week article, Tupper wrote a note to Wise that contained a glimmer of the storm that was to come: “However, good executive as you are, I still like best the pictures ... with TUPPERWARE!”

The good press continued but, in 1955, after several powerful distributors left the company, sales began to lag. Hard times strained Wise and Tupper’s relationship. By 1956, angry letters were flying back and forth between them, and at one point, Tupper stopped taking Wise’s calls. Her complaints and frank criticisms, previously helpful, had become jabs he couldn’t endure. He also started to believe that she was costing him money, irked that she had her own side business selling self-help books at company events. More to the point, he started to suspect that if he tried selling the company—which he was planning to do—having a female executive would get in the way.

Finally, in 1958, Tupper flew to Florida and fired Wise. After a heated legal battle, she received only $30,000 as a settlement. She didn’t own her house and was ordered to vacate. She had no stocks in the company; she didn’t even own many of the clothes she wore. The man she’d helped make a millionaire didn’t seem to care: Tupper ordered her name expunged from the company history and buried the 600 remaining copies of her book in an unmarked pit behind Tupperware’s Florida headquarters. Later that year, he sold the company to Rexall Drug for $16 million, divorced his wife, and bought an island in Central America. He died in Costa Rica in 1983. Wise, on the other hand, tried starting new companies but never achieved the same success she had with Tupperware. She led a quiet life with her horses, pottery, and her son until she died at her home in Kissimmee in 1992.

Her influence, however, has not waned. Today, according to the PBS American Experience documentary Tupperware!, the product is sold in about 100 countries, while “every 2.5 seconds, a Tupperware party is held somewhere in the world.” In this respect, the Golden Age of Tupperware hasn’t ended so much as it has solidified. When was the last time you stored food in a plastic container with a sealing mechanism? Tupperware is so much a part of our food culture that we don’t even think about its continuing influence, and yet we still rely on it daily.

This story is one of reinvention too: a useless plastic reimagined into something needed, of food being stored in wholly new ways, of women emerging from their kitchens to showcase their worth and proclaim their identities, of sales techniques evolving to embrace the customer, and of the singular character of Brownie Wise, who changed what it meant to be a woman in the workforce. Because of that, as Houston Post writer Napoleon Hill wrote in 1956, “It has been estimated that Brownie Wise has helped more women to financial success than any other single living person.”

Early in Wise’s tenure at the company, Tupper presented her with a piece of the raw polyethylene he’d used to make Tupperware. She saw it as poetic proof of his vision: He had created something beautiful from this unappealing glob of plastic, using nothing but imagination and persistence. It was “the best sales story I have ever heard in all my life,” she wrote. She considered “Poly,” as Tupper called it, a prized possession and would have her women touch it for good luck, telling them, “Just get your fingers on it, wish for what you want. Know it’s going to come true, and then get out and work like everything ... and it will!”